Broadway Deer on Broadway. On the foothills of Broadway Tower. A real life tower with a real life gatekeeper. The gatekeeper was genuinely thrilled with the clear view. Really genuinely excited that you could see all the way to the black mountain. Each day he guards the tower, and he works with the views. A different landscape every day. From here, on a clear day, you can see at least six different counties. Here you can't help but create prog rock in your head.
Where I grew up was where they made bricks. Before my actual time. The soil upon which I grew up on was described as "that stiff retentive clay which possesses the very negative virtue of being best adapted for the making of the bilious yellow bricks that have rendered the whole of suburban London dingy and dispiriting'. That's where I grew up. On brickfields. More brick than field. Fields holding up the Estates made out of bricks from the very land they smother. Before my actual time bricks was everything where I grew up. Barges brought rough dust from London's dustbins down the canal to my home town. London's rubbish-dust was then sieved for the properties needed to make the best bricks. They worked in gangs, the brickmakers. Summer gangs. Brutal work. Exhausted the land. Must be hollow down there. Anyway along came gravel, the not so hip byproduct, the industry killer and that was the end of the bricks.
Growing up I swam in gravel pits and I climbed trees.
This hand is reaching, the other is holding another. In that hand I have everything. You can see the sun is dropping and the planes are departing but out of this shot I can really feel the grass on my back, the comfort of happiness, closeness, however fragile. Blogs can point but the bigger picture is always out of shot.
I love it. This. We were turfed out of the weirdest hotel in Manchester. It was a hotel/day centre/halfway house as far as I could tell. Lots of families smoking cigarettes. Sweetly bonding generation to generation. Sparking each other's fags, mother, son, whole smoking families. Actually they let us check out late but only if we stripped the beds for them. So cool. Our driver was called Viper. He was driving across town to come get us. It was really sketchy. It was really friendly. The biggest shop was a triple fronted betting shop. We ate cheese and onion pasties that tasted of dust. The guy on the tills in the Aldi supermarket, about sixteen years old, wore a St George's Cross flag like a cape. Patriotic super hero. Viper says everybody is friendly unitl 10pm, swears at a car that indicates left in front of him and we're off and gone. In to England.